Two Poems

Labecca Jones

No Apology to Pedophiles

We told you
your first day,
made sure it echoed
in your head
all sixty days
of solitary.

Do you remember
what we said?
Yes, we are guards;
yes, we are inmates.
Yes, we said
the same things.
We counted you down
day, after day,
to today and it’s like
you never heard.

Didn’t believed us?

We said: ninety days,
while you stood
behind sheet metal,
knowing, or not,
what it meant
for the rest of us:
it’s a pick–your–own
date–death:
ninety from day one
of your sentence–time.

Once it happened
on Thanksgiving,
twice, on a birthday.
We’re all here
a long time,
either way.

No one’s sorry

you won’t make it
out of this place
of steel bars,
what we call
little justice for all
or at least our babies.

***

Prisoners

We, too,
are forefathers,
daddies,
husbands:
the cons,
lifers,
Death–Row bound,
rapists,
murderers,
pedophiles,
embezzlers.
We, too,
make babies,
make mommies,
and it’s not all
that bad,
not really,
if you’re one
to like numbers,
specified
dinner times
and don’t mind
a resume reading:
Felon—
enjoys bland food
and showers well
with others.

Fist Last bio bio bio.

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